


'til you set fire to my atmosphere

by amillionsmiles



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, it's shiro's turn to be a dunce, just kiss him ya goob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 12:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7269079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amillionsmiles/pseuds/amillionsmiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And it’s like the first punch Keith ever landed on him: quick and glancing, right at the ribs, out of left field and yet simultaneously a long time coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'til you set fire to my atmosphere

**Author's Note:**

> honestly I don't even know where to start with this, it got out of hand, I'm sorry
> 
> (lyrics from "Wake Up" by Eden)

_stay, you’re not gonna leave me_

_this place is right where you need to be_

_._

_._

_._

 

The night before the Kerberos mission launch starts like any other.

Well, there are a few differences. He gets to the mess hall a little bit later than usual, where Martha plops an extra helping of mashed potatoes on his plate with a wink. 

“Enjoy it,” she teases, when he looks up at her in surprise. “You’re going to miss it when you’re up there floating in space, believe it or not.”

“Oh, I believe it,” Shiro answers, and Martha’s hearty laugh trails after him as he continues sliding his tray down the line.

At the table, Harry pushes the peas around on his plate and groans in frustration. “I can’t believe that this is your last night on Earth and you’re not taking advantage of it. We could be having a party in your room right now! Girls, booze—”

“ _Harry,_ ” Lee gasps in mock outrage, “are you implying that you have a secret stash, in direct violation of Code 408?”

The freckly redhead makes a face. “I will neither confirm nor deny anything, but let’s just say that if Mr. Straight and Narrow over here decides that he’s suddenly willing to actually live a little, I have…connections.”   

Shiro balls up his napkin and throws it at Harry’s face. “Better show some respect, or I might actually report you,” he threatens, but there’s little real force behind it.

“Seriously, though, Shiro.” It’s Lee’s turn to talk, his dark brows drawn close together. “There isn’t anything special you want to do? We could probably borrow one of the trucks and drive it into town.”

“It’s fine,” Shiro says. “I want my last night to be here.”

And it’s true. Call him sentimental, but the Garrison has been good to him. This is what he wants to carry with him, when he exits the atmosphere: Martha’s laugh and steamed corn on Fridays; the excitement in the new recruits’ eyes the first time they get a full tour of the building; Major Briggs and his trim mustache and his stern, “Impress me.” The sound of lab machinery from the research wing and the rovers’ lights cutting jagged lines through the desert at night. Two of his closest friends sitting across from him: Lee with his buzzcut and sharp chin, Harry with his guileless good cheer. He wonders what they’ll be like when he gets back, what stories the three of them will have to exchange. 

Harry throws his hands up in the air. “I tried,” he says, a little mournfully, and Lee slings an arm across his shoulder and rolls his eyes, saying, “You and I can party when Shiro’s gone.”

“Yeah, but it won’t be the _same,_ ” Harry insists, but Shiro is only half paying attention because a familiar mop of shaggy black hair has entered the mess hall, head tilted in deliberation between pan-seared salmon or roast chicken.

He drops his gaze, but not fast enough. Harry has already followed his line of sight.

“Hey, it’s that kid you always train with—Keith, right? I heard from the Major that he’s got real potential,” and Shiro wishes that Harry wouldn’t say _kid_ like that, because Keith’s younger than them by a few years, sure, but he’s never been _young—_

“Yo, Keith!” Harry turns full around in his seat, waving an arm.

“What are you doing?” asks Shiro, gripping his fork.

“Inviting him over,” Harry says easily. “Who knows? Maybe he can be your replacement.”

There are a lot of things Shiro wants to say to that, but Keith is looking over at their table, shoulders stiff in hesitation. Shiro inspects the rest of the room. The usual tawny-haired guy that Keith normally sits with is nowhere to be found, and Shiro frowns, wondering why Keith is showing up to dinner at this hour, anyways. He doesn’t dwell much on it, though, because Keith’s dark eyes flicker over to his, locking.

“Come and sit with us!” Harry is calling, but the question in Keith’s eyes is directed at Shiro: _do you want me to?_

Shiro dips his head. _Of course._

Next thing he knows, Keith is sliding into the seat beside him and Harry is reaching across the table to shake his hand, saying, “Hi, I’m Harry, this is Lee, and you already know Shiro, of course.”

“Nice to meet you,” Keith nods. “Thanks for inviting me over.”

“Oh, no problem. We’re trying to change things up as much as we can, give Shiro a little bit of a shake-up before he leaves tomorrow.”

Keith’s fingers tighten around his knife. “Right,” he says, carefully pulling his chicken apart.

“So you’re what—fifteen? Sixteen?” prompts Harry, eager to get acquainted with their newest member.

“Seventeen,” Keith says quickly.

“Ah, seventeen,” sighs Harry, leaning back. “I remember those days.”

Lee snorts. “Please, Harry. You’re acting like you’re thirty or something.”

“Well,” sniffs Harry. “Regardless, I’ve been around the block a little longer, so here’s some advice, Keith: work hard, stay in school, and you could end up with one of those shiny things.” He points to Shiro’s badge. “Besides, the ladies _love_ a man in uniform.”

Keith cracks a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

“Speaking of ladies, you got a special someone?”

Keith stiffens imperceptibly. Shiro only notices it because he’s suddenly acutely aware of where their thighs are touching under the table.

“No.”

“Eh, no worries, you’re probably too busy studying anyway. I heard you’re an ace pilot.”

“Something like that.” Keith looks down at his plate, hair falling in his face, and a sudden urge to push it out of the way seizes Shiro.

(He swallows it quickly, alongside a spoonful of his potatoes.)

“So what do you like to do in your free time?” Lee asks, attempting to break Harry’s monopoly of the conversation.

“I read, mostly. Fly.” Keith’s eyes cut to Shiro. “Spar.”

“That’s right, you’re going to be out a sparring partner, huh,” observes Harry, thoughtful. He claps Lee on the back. “Lee here’s a pretty good fighter.”

“Relatively,” Lee demurs. “I don’t have as mean a right hook as Shiro, but.”

And Shiro can’t help it—he tenses. It’s a weird feeling, this possessiveness, and he knows he has no right to it. But all he can think of is Keith ducking out of the way, hair sticking to his face and cheeks flushed with exertion. He stays in that moment for a beat too long, because the next thing Shiro knows Lee is looking at him, a dawning realization in his eyes.

“Keith’s seen it all,” Shiro teases, in an attempt to deflect Lee’s attention away from him. “One time the punching bag got so fed up it punched him back.”

He doesn’t know what he’d been expecting from Keith. Some sort of smile, maybe, a grin of acknowledgement. But instead, the younger boy jerks back, eyes widening.

“It was real nasty,” Shiro continues, half-recounting, half-remembering. “I had to fix him up.”

“Huh,” Harry says, studying Keith’s face for blemishes. “That bad? You don’t have any scars.”

“It wasn’t,” Keith mutters, and there’s something shuttered about him now, though Shiro can’t put a finger on why. “Shiro’s just being dramatic.”

“All right, fine,” Shiro concedes, relaxing a bit now that Lee’s more intently focused on Keith than on him. “But how about the time you almost broke your wrist—” he nudges Keith’s elbow, trying to get a rise out of him and snap him out of whatever funk he’s in—

Keith jumps up as if scalded, hands planted flat on the table. “I should go,” he says quickly. “I’ve got—class, tomorrow, and I need—” He takes a breath. “I need to get some rest. Thanks for the talk.” He doesn’t wait for their response, hightailing it out of the dining room, and Shiro watches him go, something unsettled, _wrong_ , curling in his stomach.

After what is too long to be blatantly obvious but still too short to be anything else, he finally says: “I’m going to turn in.”

Harry and Lee’s eyes on him are soft, knowing.

“Good luck,” Lee wishes, and Shiro conjures up the tight line of Keith’s mouth, the set of his shoulders, and thinks: _I’m going to need it._

 

o.O.o

 

“Do you want to tell me what this is all about?”

“No.” Keith’s back is to him; he faces the solid door of the training room, still debating whether to actually set foot inside.

At night, this part of the Garrison is quiet. Chatter spills from its other corners, snippets from late night gatherings in dorm rooms and the excited whispers of younger cadets trying to sneak around. With a twist of his mouth, Shiro thinks about how predictable it is, that this is where Keith goes to clear his head—of course they always find themselves _here._

“If this is about me embarrassing you in front of Harry and Lee—”

“It isn’t,” Keith says, voice tight.

“Well, then, you’re going to have to help me out here, because I’m completely at a loss.”

“It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” says Shiro, crossing his arms.

“Just drop it, Shiro,” snaps Keith. “You don’t always have to come running after me like I’m—” He cuts himself off abruptly, balling his hands into fists.

“Like what, Keith.”

“Forget it.”

“I won’t.”

“I swear, Shiro, why won’t you just _leave me alone.”_

He forces himself to remain calm, to counteract the heat simmering in Keith’s words. “Keith,” he says, reaching forward to place a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “you’re being immature—"

Keith spins away from him and suddenly his hand is on Shiro’s chest, fist bunching up the fabric of his shirt. “ _Immature,_ ” spits Keith, bitterly. “Because that’s all I am to you, isn’t it? Just some little kid who needs to be looked after, taken care of. But I don’t need your—your _protection,_ I don’t want—”

And it’s like the first punch Keith ever landed on him: quick and glancing, right at the ribs, out of left field and yet simultaneously a long time coming.

Shiro’s breath hitches. He brings a hand up to Keith’s wrist, feels every muscle in Keith’s body sing with tension.

“ _What_ do you want, Keith?”

“You know.” Keith’s voice is miserable, but he doesn’t pull away. “You can’t— _not_ , after this.”

And how many times has he imagined _this:_ a dimly-lit corridor, Keith’s pulse wild beneath his fingertips?  
  
(Too many to ever be proper. Too many to ever say out loud.)

He allows himself, hesitantly, to touch the corner of Keith’s mouth. Feels Keith’s sharp intake of breath, how he holds himself like he’s in the middle of a fight, like any minute the carpet will be yanked out from under him. And then, as his thumb traces its way up over the swell of Keith’s cheek, fingers tucking behind the base of Keith’s head, the gradual loosening—the slow slump of defeat.    

 _Please,_ Shiro thinks into the dark, quiet space between them. _I’ve never asked for much, before. Just let me have this. Just for tonight._

“Don’t, Shiro.” Keith’s voice is razor-thin, a knife turned inwards. “Don’t start something you don’t plan on finishing.”

And it’s such a tender, newly formed thing between them that it could almost pass as a dream. It will probably seem like one, tomorrow morning, when the sun sears itself across his eyelids as he takes to the sky.

But for now, it’s just this: Keith’s fingers curled around his shirt, pulling him closer now instead of keeping him at bay. The slight bumping of their noses. The lidded look in Keith’s eyes as they pull themselves away from each other, as Shiro says:

“Consider this a promise, then."

o.O.o

 

Kerberos, through the port view window, is a lot of gray: gray dust and darker gray craters rising from its surface, scattered across the moon’s pockmarked face.

“Ready?” asks Captain Holt, adjusting the gloves of his spacesuit.

Shiro fixes his helmet, thinks of all the stories he’ll have to tell, the people he has waiting for him back home.

“Ready,” he agrees, and opens the hatch.

_._

_._

_._

_but you’ll feel better when you wake up_

_swear to god I’ll make up_

_everything and more when I get back someday_

**Author's Note:**

> for reference, the incident with Keith getting patched up by Shiro can be read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7257700)
> 
>  **EDIT 8/7/16:** now with some [art!](http://lightningstrikes-art.tumblr.com/post/148530259399/dont-start-something-you-dont-plan-on-finishing)
> 
>  **EDIT 8/8/16:** [MORE ART!!!!](http://silencedmoment.tumblr.com/post/148642032078/dont-start-something-you-dont-plan-on)


End file.
